


Round and Round the Roundabout (Back Where We Began)

by Cinaed



Category: CSI: Las Vegas
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-27
Updated: 2006-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-08 03:36:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/pseuds/Cinaed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It seems like it's always an endless cycle, and David finds himself back where he began when the crime lab investigates a possible hate crime against a homosexual police officer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Round and Round the Roundabout (Back Where We Began)

**Author's Note:**

> The title is a line from "Turning," which comes from the musical Les Miserables.

It starts out as an average night, well, aside from the fact that David's pulling a double-shift and is so exhausted that he can hardly see straight, but that happens every once in awhile and isn't a new experience for him. It's really just your average hectic night, which means David has to steal an extra mug of Blue Hawaiian and load up on some candy bars from the vending machine and he'll be fine. 

He's just paused to give himself a much-needed energy boost with a Twix when Nick strides in, looking tense and almost vaguely ill, as though he’s bitten into something bitter that is upsetting his stomach. Without preamble, he thrusts evidence at David and states flatly, "This gets top priority. Grissom's orders." 

"Why--" David watches Nick's back as the Texan walks out of the lab and frowns a little. What had _that_ been about? Nick is one of the few CSIs who actually engages in idle conversation with him from time to time. Well, idle conversation that isn't layered in sarcasm and thinly-veiled insults. He examines the evidence, but at first glance the red paint flecks yield no answers, and after a moment, he shrugs and sets aside his questions for later, when someone could (or rather, would) actually explain why a certain case got top priority. He glances at the victim's name, wondering if it's perhaps someone famous, but he knows of no 'Henderson, M.' Maybe it's a dead kid. Those seem to get under Nick's skin, well, under everyone's skin to be perfectly honest. 

He's just finished running trace on the flecks when Sara walks in. "Got more for you from the Henderson case," she says, and something in her voice makes him glance at her. Frustration fairly radiates off Sara's frame -- she seems ready to hit something, and David supposes he should be grateful that she's not beating him into oblivion. At his raised eyebrow, she frowns. "The Henderson case?" she repeats slowly, as though he's a dim-witted idiot -- which is something _he's_ supposed to do, not her. 

"Oh yes, the magical, top-priority case that I've heard absolutely nothing about, but which seems to have your and Nick's panties in a twist," he drawls, and she scowls.

"Do you have the results for the paint flecks?" 

"Yes." David waits a beat, and when she just continues scowling, sighs melodramatically and hands the results to her. "Paint comes from an '89 or '90 Cherokee. Flame red. Now, is this case a _secret_ top-priority case? It’s simply that you all are being surprisingly tight-lipped, and I must say, my curiosity has flared." 

If possible, the frustration increases, and he can almost see smoke coming out of Sara’s ears as she growls out a harsh, "The victim's a police officer, and apparent victim of a hate crime." At his raised eyebrow, she gives a quick, angry shrug of her shoulders, as though trying to shrug off the rage that is pressing down on her frame, and explains, “Henderson's only been on the force for three years.” She pauses, and sighs. "We're thinking it's a hate crime because he was...homosexual. Openly." 

It's as though she has taken a 4x4 and smashed him across the face -- all the oxygen empties from his lungs, and dark spots appear in his vision, and everything goes mute and faded. He blinks, hard, and when the black spots finally vanish, Sara is giving him an odd look. 

"Oh," he manages to get out, and looks down at the evidence she had set on the counter. "I...top-priority. Got it." David should probably make a sarcastic remark, if just to make the odd look on Sara's face go away, but everything is still mute and faded, and the voice that's usually making snide remarks in his head is quiet, and so he just gives a weak little shrug of his shoulders and reaches for the evidence. 

It is not until the door shuts behind her that he rereads the name -- and the sight of 'Henderson, _M_' sends a jolt of dizzying panic through his frame, and before he realizes what he's doing, he's opened the door and called after Sara, "What...what was his name?" 

She turns and raises an eyebrow. "I told you, Henderson," she says, exasperated. 

"No, no, his first name."

"Oh, it's Mark. Mark Henderson." 

He is aware he probably has a look of relief on his face, because Sara is shooting him another odd look, but he is too giddy with relief to care as he nods and ducks back into his lab. The choked feeling of panic eases somewhat, and he's breathing easier, only then aware that he was even struggling for breath to begin with. 

David leans against the counter for a moment, half-closing his eyes and trying to remind himself that he has evidence to run trace on, but the memories come anyway, like some unstoppable flood that is hell-bent on drowning him. 

_(He eyes the man who slides onto the barstool next to him. The man's in his early twenties, with an Italian background, if his thick sable curls are any indication, and he is wearing sensible shoes and a dark green shirt that brings out the green in his hazel eyes. The sensible shoes are a point in his favor, and so is his friendly smile and polite, "So, you must be David." He offers his hand, and David automatically shakes it -- the man's got a firm, confident handshake, which is another point. _

_"I am," he acknowledges, and then leans back in his chair, pinning the other man beneath an intense gaze and launching into his interrogation. "So, Chris, do you smoke?" _

_A smile tugs at the other man's lips. "Mike said you'd do this, but I thought he was joking. No, no I don't smoke. And I drink responsibly." _

_"Have you ever cheated on someone during a relationship?" _

_Chris straightens his spine a little and frowns. "No, and I won't date anyone who believes cheating is even an option." _

_David nods, satisfied with that answer. "Have you ever been violent towards a boyfriend?" _

_"No!" The answer is more than a little indignant at that. "I don't believe in violence at all." _

_David smirks a little. The indignation was a nice touch, and seemed heartfelt enough. Plus, he's already done a background check and made certain that Christopher Leach, age 24, landscaper, had no criminal record. "Good. Now, one last thing." His tone still casual, he continues matter-of-factly, "I work for the LAPD. If you hurt Michael in any way, if you cheat on him or hit him, I know how to commit a crime and get away with it. And I will make certain that your death is both exceedingly painful and terribly humiliating. Understood?" _

_Chris blinks and half-smiles for a moment, and then sobers as he realizes David is deadly serious. He raises an eyebrow. "You really look out for him, don't you?" he says in a tone David recognizes all too well. Every time David gets to the death threats, the potential boyfriends seem to think he has 'strong feelings' for Michael. They don't get that David is just very protective of the few friends he has, especially his one and only best friend._

_"We've been friends since we were twenty and dirt-poor college students, and we've shared an apartment ever since," he says with a careless shrug, and ignores the probing look Chris directs his way. It's called friendship, damn it, nothing more, nothing less. _

_The other man just looks at him for a moment, expression slightly doubtful, and then he shrugs and looks earnest. "Look, I won't do anything like that to Mike." _

_"Done with the interrogation yet?" comes a warm, amused voice and David smirks as Michael sidles over, polishing an already spotless glass and trying to appear completely innocent. "Or am I interrupting?" He grins, and the smile lights up his dark eyes. "Wait, don't tell me, you just got through with the death threat." _

_David rolls his eyes. "You can get him a drink on me, Michael." _

_"That means you've been deemed acceptable," Michael informs Chris, and the man laughs, and then laughs louder when Michael adds, "Be grateful. The last guy I brought to the bar he actually kicked in the shin." _

_"He deserved it," David mutters, and at Chris's curious look, shakes his head and launches into the tale of Robert Ordman, age 27, screenwriter, who hadn't taken David's death threat seriously.)_

He shudders as the memory, a dozen years old, finally recedes, leaving him feeling slightly nauseous and more than a little shaky. He swallows, hard, and picks up the evidence bags Sara left behind, trying to ignore the way his hands are trembling or the sinking feeling in his gut that tonight is going to be a very shitty night. 

*

When he runs out of candy bars and coffee, David doesn’t go to the break room, instead continuing to work on the bits and pieces of trace that Sara and Nick have been bringing him for the past couple of hours. Gradually, he learns more about Mark Henderson -- how Henderson was just shy of his twenty-sixth birthday, how he was an only child (his parents were coming to collect the body as quickly as an airplane could get them there), how he had apparently been run over by an ’89 or ’90 flame red Cherokee that witnesses said had swerved to hit him while he was on his nightly jog, how he had just broken up with his first serious boyfriend a few weeks earlier (they were still trying to track the ex down). 

With each new fact another memory of Michael comes bubbling up to the forefront of David’s brain, despite the fact that the two are nothing alike. Nevertheless, the flood of memories submerges him, and David is hard-pressed to focus on anything but the memories and the Henderson case. He probably shouldn’t be surprised at the amount of backlog he’s going to be leaving for Travis, and probably should do _something_ about the backlog, but he can’t bring himself to care. 

He also can’t make himself care when Catherine comes in and snaps, irritation sharpening her tone, “David, I gave you that trace from the White case two hours ago. What’s the holdup?” 

“The Henderson case is the holdup,” he says without looking up from the microscope (and hopefully she’ll see that as a rude dismissal and leave, rather than the actual fact that the exhaustion has weighed down his frame so much that he can’t lift his head). “Complain to Nick and Sara.” 

Catherine makes a noise that could almost be called a growl, and begins, “I need that trace, David, it’s-- is that the _backlog_?” 

At the almost-awe in her voice, he forces himself to look up, and stares blearily in the direction of the backlog. “Yes. Think Travis will kill me?” Try as he might, he can’t force any sarcasm into his voice, and it comes out flat and weary. 

There is silence for a moment, during which he blinks and tries to convince his eyes that yes, they really _do_ want to focus, and then Catherine says, “You’re pulling a double? Why don’t you go take a break, get some coffee--”

“I’m fine,” David says, not really caring if he’s interrupting her. “If that’s your unsubtle way of telling me to put your trace on the top of the pile, I’ll page you as soon as I’m done with it. White case, right?” 

“Yes, but you look like you need a break--”

“_I’m fine_.” And he hears his voice rising without his consent, and can hear the frustration seething beneath the syllables, and apparently Catherine can as well, because when she responds, she sounds almost hurt (he must have misinterpreted her tone, because Catherine Willows of all people shouldn’t give a damn if he’s pissed at her).

“I was just trying to help,” she says quietly, and he inwardly grimaces at her choice of words. “Page me when you analyze the trace.” 

“Right,” he mutters, turning back to the microscope and swallowing against the lump that rises in his throat, even while he fights against the memory that surges at ‘I was just trying to help.’ 

_(He hears Michael coming before he sees his roommate, and looks up from his book with a frown as the other man half-staggers his way into their apartment. “Michael?” he says with a raised eyebrow, taking in Michael’s bedraggled state. _

_Michael grimaces and almost throws himself onto the couch next to David, and David struggles not to wrinkle his nose at the overwhelming smell of alcohol and smoke. This has got to be bad. Michael’s godfather had died of lung cancer, and so he only smokes when something terrible has happened, like when his sister was in that car accident and was in a coma for two weeks or when his ex Drew had killed himself. _

_“Michael?” he repeats, setting down the book. _

_“Chris is moving to Boston. He got an offer of a better job, and he’s taking it.” _

_Now it’s David’s turn to grimace. “When?” _

_“In three weeks,” Michael almost groans, and presses his palms against his eyes. “Damnit, David, I really liked him, you know?” _

_“I know,” David says quietly, because Michael’s relationship with Chris had lasted almost three years, the longest-running relationship his best friend has ever had. He forces a smirk onto his face. “Think of it this way -- if he chooses his job over you, then he wasn’t good enough for you anyway….” _

_Michael looks up at that, and glares at him with red-rimmed eyes. “I_ loved _him, David,” he snaps, “so how about you not fucking say shit like that?” _

_David can’t help the slight flinch at the venom in his best friend’s voice, and at the profanity directed his way. Michael only really swore when he was three sheets to the wind, so he couldn’t -- shouldn’t -- take it personally. “Sorry. I was just…trying to help.” _

_After a moment, the glare shifts to a despondent look and Michael sighs heavily. “I know you were. I’m just…fucked up in the head right now.” He looks down at his hands, and sighs again. “I really liked him, David.” _

_“Yeah,” David says softly, and if he were anyone else other than David Hodges, he would have given Michael a pat on the shoulder or something equally supportive. Instead he just watches Michael rub at his reddened eyes. _

_After a long moment, Michael looks over at him, and there’s something in that dark gaze that makes David’s breath catch. “You’re the only one who’s ever stuck around, you know,” he says quietly, and there’s an undertone of something that makes David’s stomach want to leap into his throat, because Michael has never directed an undertone like that at him before. _

_David forces a smirk onto his face, although he suspects it is shaky and not at all convincing. He swallows, forcing out words past the lump in his throat. “Hey, I’ll stick around as long as you pay your half of the rent.” _

_Michael just looks at him for a moment, his dark gaze piercing and seeming to be looking for something, and then half-smiles to himself, as though pleased by what he’s found, and says, “Good to know.” He heaves himself to his feet, and when he wobbles, David instinctively stands and steadies him. _

_David earns a soft smile for that, and then Michael says, “Thanks, David,” and staggers his way to his bedroom. _

_He watches Michael go, unable to get the scent of Michael, alcohol, and cigarettes out of his mind, and the book, which had been fascinating him only a few minutes ago, is now dull and uninteresting compared to trying to figure out the expression on Michael’s face.)_ 

It had taken Michael four more months (and several shots of vodka) to suggest that he and David try dating. David, not being an idiot, even if this proved all of Michael’s ex-boyfriends right, had said yes, and that had been the beginning of it. Had that really been _nine_ years ago? 

He realizes he has been staring sightlessly at the countertop for a while now, and rubs at his weary eyes for a moment before he leans back and begins shifting through the pile in search of trace related to the White case. Hopefully Catherine isn’t squealing to Ecklie about him not performing his job quickly and efficiently. 

*

David has never been so grateful for the end of a shift. He’s barely conscious of the death-glare Travis is directing his way at the sight of the enormous amount of backlog. He just wants to go home, take a shower to wash the invisible grime of memories away, go to sleep, and pray he doesn’t dream of Michael. 

He is almost to the locker room when he hears a certain CSI Level One calling his name. David sighs. Of all the people he doesn’t want to interact with today, Greg is at the top of his list, for many reasons David doesn’t want to think about right now. 

“Hodges! Jesus, are you deaf?” Greg is looking both amused and exasperated as he catches up and begins matching David’s stride. He nudges David with a bony elbow and grins. “Or maybe you’re half-asleep. Catherine said something about you pulling a double shift.” 

“Yes, I pulled a double shift, which is why I was happily heading for home before you started bothering me,” David mutters, and tries to subtly increase his stride so he’ll get to the locker room and away from Greg sooner. “I’m off the clock, so if you have some last-minute trace, see Travis. Of course, he might tear your head off.”

“Yeah, Catherine mentioned there was going to be quite a bit of backlog for him,” Greg says with a laugh, and ordinarily David might have been offended, but he’s just too weary, and so just makes a noncommittal noise. “Anyway, Jacqui was thinking about everyone going to the diner, but I guess you’re too tired.” 

David somehow manages to gather enough strength to roll his eyes. “Bingo. Give the boy a prize. And did Chatty Cathy have anything _else_ to add?” 

“Just that you’re grumpy when you’re tired.” Greg grins. “I told her that you’re grumpy all the time. It’s part of your charm. Anyway, I was wondering if you’re not too busy--” 

“Hey, Hodges.” 

Jesus fucking Christ, did someone up there hate him? Did someone up there just spend all his or her free time tormenting him? Why couldn’t he just get to his locker and escape from this hell? 

“_What_?” he all but snarls, glowering at Nick, who ignores his nasty look and grins. 

“Thought you’d want to know that we solved the Henderson case thanks to your results on the paint flecks. Turns out Henderson’s ex has a new boyfriend who drives a ’90 Cherokee. As soon as Sara and I showed him the trace results, the guy broke down and confessed to the murder. Said he didn’t want any competition.” 

David feels something akin to relief at that, because finally, _finally_ the case is done with and he can forget about Mark Henderson and hate crimes and homophobia. Still, the reason for the man’s murder makes his lips curl and his expression darken into a look of disgust. “What an idiot. Has ‘Look, I’ve killed someone to show my love for you, now love me forever’ _ever_ worked?” 

Both Nick and Greg shrug, and David resumes his walk towards the locker room, not caring if the two follow him. The memories are starting to recede, bit by bit, and he can feel the tension in his shoulders starting to seep away. That is, until he hears yet another voice calling his name. 

He sighs and turns to face a stone-faced Conrad. “Let me guess, Travis is angry at the amount of backlog?” 

“I’ve seen the backlog for myself, David. It’s ridiculous,” Conrad says, and David bites the inside of his cheek, knowing he’ll have quite a few words to say to Travis the next time he saw the other man. After all, _David_ didn’t go whining to Conrad whenever Travis left him backlog. 

“I was tired and pulling a double, and then there was an influx of cases--” 

“All of which you ignored,” Conrad interrupts, and his voice is low and bewilderingly, almost concerned, and for a second David’s thrown before his weary mind finally remembers that Conrad is one of the few people who knows about his reason for leaving Los Angeles. “You got hung up on the Henderson case, David.” 

If Nick and Greg hadn’t been watching with curious looks on their faces, David might have apologized, might have explained that déjà vu and memories had been gnawing away at him all night, because if there is one thing he’s always prided himself on, it’s his professionalism and ability to stay on task. But Nick and Greg are watching, and so he just nods curtly and says, “It won’t happen again.” 

Conrad studies him for a moment, and seems ready to say something else, but finally nods. “See that it doesn’t,” he says, and then quieter, so that Nick and Greg can’t hear, “or I’ll have to recommend you to the psychiatrist.” 

David can’t quite stop the grimace at that. Everyone had had to meet with the psychiatrist after the lab explosion and then after Nick’s kidnapping, and David had spent enough time with the man to recognize he was an idiot. “You won’t have to. I won’t get hung up on a case again.” 

Conrad nods, and David takes that as a dismissal, all but barreling into the locker room. He has just finished the locker combination and begun shrugging off his lab coat when Greg speaks. “What was that all about?” 

“What was what all about?” David plays dumb for a moment, but the tension is returning his shoulders again and his hands are starting to shake ever so slightly as he hangs the lab coat up in his locker. He just wants to go _home_. Was that so much to ask? 

Greg, of course, is undeterred. “You and Ecklie.” 

He rolls his eyes and shoots a look of annoyance in Greg’s direction. “There was a lot of backlog. Travis bitched to Conrad, Conrad got irritated, so I got bitched at. There. Have I sated your curiosity?” 

“What’s up with the Henderson case?” 

David wonders if anyone else notices that his hands are shaking so badly that he can’t unbutton his shirt even as he snaps, “It was a dead cop and a possible hate crime. Grissom had it on top priority. Apparently I got a bit _too_ focused on finding the cop-killer. My mistake.” He finally gives up on changing into day clothes, and grabs his wallet and keys. “Are you _done_ with the interrogation, Sanders? If I recall correctly, you have a rendezvous at a certain diner. We wouldn’t want you to be late.” 

He slams his locker shut a lot harder than he means to, and does a half-wince at the noise, half-grimace at his mistake, because sure enough a second later, Nick’s asking, “You okay, Hodges?” and the flood of memories return with a vengeance, knocking his breath from him. 

_(It is his first night off in three weeks, and David is quite willing to snooze the entire day away. He’s grateful when Michael lets him sleep and only forces him out of bed so that they can have dinner together before Michael goes to work. _

_Michael’s only been working at this particular bar for a few weeks, but already he likes it better than the old one. The people tip better at the new bar, and Michael’s almost saved up enough money to get a painting from his favorite artist, a painting he’s been ogling for months. _

_“Just another night or two, and I’ll be able to buy it,” he announces happily, and David rolls his eyes but doesn’t comment. If Michael wants to waste his money on something only he and that artist consider art, let him. “I offered to pick up Andy’s shift too, so I won’t be home until morning.” _

_“Just try not to wake me up,” David warns him with a mock-growl, and Michael just grins, because they both know full well that David sleeps like the dead. _

_Michael kisses him, tasting vaguely of cranberry sauce with an aftertaste of wine, and grabs the leather jacket that David bought him for their fifth anniversary. “Goodnight. Dream a little dream of me, would you?” _

_“I’m flushing your Louis Armstrong collection down the toilet if you don’t quit doing that!” David calls after him, and Michael laughs and shuts the door behind him. _

_It’s about three in the morning when a loud, persistent pounding drags David away from the land of dreams. He is cursing a blue streak by the time he gets to the door, not bothering to throw on a bathrobe over his T-shirt and boxers. If the person outside doesn’t want to see him in boxers, they shouldn’t have interrupted his well-deserved sleep. _

_“What the hell?” he demands, throwing open the door and glaring out at whoever’s disturbing his otherwise peaceful night. “It’s three in the fucking morn--”_

_“Hodges?” says one of the men on his doorstep, and he belatedly recognizes him as one of the homicide detectives that works closely with the CSU. The man, Richardson if David recalls correctly, looks a little startled. “Is this_ your _residence?” _

_David blinks. “My roommate and I rent this place together. Have for years,” he answers warily after a moment, frowning. “Look, if there was a murder committed next door or something, I didn’t hear anything. Tonight’s my night off, and I’ve been sleeping like the dead. Now, if you’ll excuse me--” _

_This time it’s the other detective who interrupts him. “Is your…roommate Michael Thomas?” _

_Everything stops at that, and for a moment, David doesn’t breathe, and just wills for everything to end here and now, so that he can die blissfully ignorant. But then his traitorous lungs start laboring for oxygen, he takes a breath, and time resumes marching on. _

_“Michael’s at work,” he says flatly, and feels something like the grip of despair wrap around his throat and begin to tighten as Richardson looks uncomfortable and glances uncertainly at the other detective. _

_The other detective is quiet for a moment, his expression grave, and then he sighs and begins, “Mr. Hodges, I’m sorry to inform you that--”_

_David slams the door in his face, and leans heavily against it even as Richardson makes a startled noise and the other detective calls, “Mr. Hodges?” _

_“No,” he all but snarls through the door, and despair is choking his breath from him now, and he can feel the nausea roiling his stomach like there is a tempest in his belly. He swallows hard, and repeats, weaker this time, “No.” _

_“Hodges!” Richardson shouts through the door, and begins knocking on it with his fist if the noise level is any indication. “Hodges, open the door. Hodges, you all right in there? Hodges?” _

_David leans against the door for another moment, closing his eyes and trying to summon the taste of cranberry sauce and wine to his lips, but that only makes him more nauseous, and he barely makes it to the bathroom before he is vomiting up the dinner Michael had made, the last dinner Michael would ever make.)_

“Hodges?” Apparently Nick’s had to repeat himself quite a few times, because both he and Greg are looking concerned, and they’ve both invaded his personal space, as though they think he’s about to collapse or something. 

“I want to take a shower. I want to eat. I want to catch up on my much-needed sleep. Most of all though, I want you two to get your noses out of my goddamn _business_.” The last sentence escapes his lips as almost a growl, and both CSIs look startled, but David’s stomach is roiling, and there is a ghostly aftertaste of cranberries on his lips that makes his nausea increase tenfold. “So get out of my personal space and get lost, comprende?” 

Nick takes a step back, his expression shifting to one of worry and a tinge of hurt, but Greg remains where he is, blinking in confusion, and it’s only when David glares at the CSI Level One that he backs out of David’s personal space as well. 

“Hodges, man, we’re just….” Nick shrugs helplessly, at a loss for words. 

“Concerned for little old me?” David remarks bitterly, and tries to ignore his churning stomach. “Don’t be. I’ll be fine after some sleep and a shower.” He starts towards the locker room door, already fumbling with his keys to have them ready for the ignition once he gets to his car, and ignores Greg calling after him. 

It has been one of the shittiest nights of his life, and David is going home. 

*

He’s almost to his car, almost to freedom, when Bobby and Jacqui blindside him. Bobby takes his right elbow, Jacqui his left, and then Jacqui pries the keys out of his hand while Bobby steals his wallet. Well, Greg and/or Nick had certainly snitched quickly enough, hadn’t they? 

“One of us will drive you home,” Jacqui says matter-of-factly, even as her anxious gaze focuses on his face. 

David goes to argue, but his stomach is cramping and he has the sudden image of doubling over in pain and crashing into a telephone pole halfway home. “Fine,” he mutters, and it’s Bobby who slides into the driver’s seat of his car and starts the engine. 

As soon as the car doors shut, David feels the walls of the car close in, and rolls his window down in a vain attempt to waylay this sensation of claustrophobia. It doesn’t work (not that he expects it to), and heaviness builds up in his chest until it hurts to breathe. He drums his fingers against the door, and presses his face against the cool glass, trying to ignore the anxious look Jacqui is still directing his way. 

She keeps up the anxious look, though, and after a few minutes he mutters, “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

Jacqui looks a little disbelieving at that, but she knows him well enough to realize that when he says he doesn’t want to do something that means there’s a snowball’s chance in hell that he’s going to change his mind. “All right. Do you want one of us to stay at your house? Make you breakfast?” 

He snorts at that. “I don’t need you or Bobby playing nursemaid. I’m going to reheat some leftovers and go to bed. I’ll be fine after some sleep.” 

“Well, if ya ain’t figured it out yet, Archie stole your cell last week an’ put us on the speed-dial of yer phone if ya need anythin’,” Bobby says quietly. “I’m number #2, and Jacq’s #3.” 

David will have to remember to ‘thank’ Archie for messing with his cell phone later. “He put himself as #1?” When Bobby and Jacqui don’t meet his eyes, he growls. “Don’t tell me. He decided to be _clever_ and put Greg as #1.” Their silence is answer enough, and David reminds himself to steal Archie’s cell and delete his entire address book. Maybe that will teach the other man to mind his own business. 

He closes his eyes and is silent for the rest of the ride, well aware that Jacqui is still watching him worriedly, but the heaviness in his chest has swallowed up the rest of his words, and he just wants to crawl into bed. When Bobby pulls into his driveway, he forces himself to lift his head. “So, are you being cheap and hijacking my car or are you calling a taxi?”

Bobby and Jacqui, who had obviously acted on instinct driving him home and hadn’t considered that they both had cars at the crime lab, exchange a look. It’s Jacqui who shrugs and says, “I’ll bring it back later,” and takes his house key off his key-chain and hands it to him. 

“Just don’t put any dents into it,” he mutters, and climbs slowly out of the car. He can feel the exhaustion now as a deep ache that makes every bone in his body hurt and his limbs move as slow as molasses. 

“Jes’ remember -- I’m #2, an’ Jacq’s #3,” Bobby calls after him, and he grunts out an affirmative before unlocking his front door and stumbling inside. 

As soon as the door shuts behind him, David is hit by a wave of unreality. This small, one-story house has never haunted him before, because it has never had memories of Michael sitting on the couch or relaxing on the bed (David had gotten all new furniture when he moved to Las Vegas), but now, even the small knick-knacks that he brought with him from Los Angeles are enough to make memories haunt him.

A restless sort of frustration rises within him, and he finds himself prowling the rooms of his house rather than collapsing into bed, fiddling with the knick-knacks and keepsakes that remind him of Michael. He shuts the door of the cabinet where all the home videos are (because Michael had considered himself an amateur cameraman and videotaped all the family get-togethers, which meant David ended up with copies). He takes the painting of nighttime Los Angeles that Michael gave him for their third anniversary off the wall and puts it in a closet. 

When he gets to the photograph on the mantelpiece, David cannot help but look at it for a moment. Michael had three older sisters and a younger brother, plus about seven aunts and uncles and assorted cousins, all of whom lived in or around Los Angeles County, which meant there was always a huge gathering at the Thomas house every few months, and David had always gotten dragged to Michael’s family get-togethers, ever since he was twenty. 

This picture is of the first family get-together after David and Michael had begun dating, and David almost smiles (but instead just manages a bittersweet expression) at the memory that wells up. 

_(“Turn the camera off,” David complains for the fifth time. “Or at least get my good side.” He swats at the video camera and Michael laughs and dodges his lunge. _

_“I’ll stop filming if you agree to be in the family picture.” _

_David rolls his eyes. “Because I won’t stick out like a sore thumb.” He looks pointedly at Mrs. Thomas who is a tall, slender African-American woman, and her husband, who is a stocky Hispanic, and the assorted dark-skinned family members. _

_Michael laughs. “You know you want to be the center of attention. Deal?” _

_He rolls his eyes again, but one picture seems insignificant compared to hours of torture Michael could heap upon him with that damn video camera. “Deal,” he says grudgingly, and cannot help but smile a little when Michael grins and lowers the camera. _

_“Excellent.” Michael turns and hollers, “Hey, Gabby! David’s agreed to be in the picture!” _

_His oldest sister grins and gives them the thumbs up sign, and then rolls her eyes as her three-year-old daughter begins to tug on her pants leg and whine for something. _

_A few minutes later they are all in their assigned places, rolling their eyes as ‘Uncle Walter’ sets up the camera and pretends to know what he’s doing. Finally, though, he yells, “Got the timer set!” and bolts for his place in the group as everyone pastes a smile onto their faces. _

_Just before the camera flashes, Michael slides an arm around David’s waist and murmurs into his ear, “You’re officially a part of the family. There’s no escape now.”)_

David studies the photograph for another moment, the restless feeling replaced by exhaustion once more. The picture-David is wearing a slightly amused, slightly startled expression on his face, because Michael’s words had both warmed and alarmed him. He snorts to himself. He hadn’t known how true Michael’s words would be. David’s father had disowned him when David had announced his and Michael’s relationship (before his mother had burst into tears but after his younger brother James had snorted, muttering, “Always pegged you for a faggot, David”). Even now, three years after Michael’s death, David still kept in touch with the Thomas family and occasionally went to visit Michael’s parents in Lamcaster. 

He traces Michael’s frame with his finger, the man’s caramel skin and sparkling dark eyes as flawless and beautiful as he remembers, and after a long moment, he turns the photograph so that it is facing the wall and steps away from the mantelpiece. 

His empty stomach is complaining with twinges of pain, but that is nothing compared to the bone-aching weariness, and so rather than grab some leftovers and have a makeshift breakfast, David kicks off his shoes and peels off his socks and falls face-first onto his bed. 

He’s asleep before his head even hits the pillow. 

*

David is awakened from dreams that are half made-up, half memory by a knocking on the door, and that is enough to disorient him. The only people who ever knock on his door are Jacqui, Bobby, and occasionally the next-door lady, who comes over to ask if he can check out her car when it makes odd noises. 

He rolls over and blinks at the ceiling for a moment before dragging himself out of bed and making his way to the front door. He opens it and stares. There, of all people, is Greg Sanders, and David rubs at his eyes to reassure himself that no, his vision isn’t faulty. 

“What the hell?” 

Greg looks almost sheepish for a moment and holds out a paper bag as some sort of peace offering. “Figured you might want some breakfast from the diner.” He grins, but it wavers uncertainly on his face. “Plus, I got the feeling you’d already told Jacq and Bobby not to check up on you, so I thought I would.” 

David accepts the paper bag slowly, and glances inside. There’s a Styrofoam container that is apparently holding his meal, and David wonders what the hell Greg brought him to eat. 

“Can I come in?” Greg asks, and there’s the same flicker of sheepishness as before. Jacqui and Bobby have definitely put him up to this. When David just shrugs and steps aside, the CSI enters and glances around the living room curiously, because Greg has never actually been inside his house. 

The restless feeling is stirring again, because David still needs sleep, and it’s bad enough having memories of Michael haunting his house. He doesn’t need memories of Greg to torment him as well. 

“Look, you’ve come, you’ve given me food, and you’ve seen for yourself that I’m fine,” David says, and ignores the fact that he’s still in his work clothes, which are now horribly rumpled. “You can report back to Jacqui and Bobby now, tell them I’m alive.” 

Greg offers up a startlingly direct look at that, one that makes him have to resist the urge to smooth down his shirt and try to get the wrinkles out of his pants. “You don’t look fine. Or alive, really. You look half-dead.” 

David rolls his eyes. “Thanks for the compliment, Sanders. And you know, I might not look half-dead if a certain CSI Level One hadn’t woken me up from my much-needed rest.” 

“Sorry,” Greg says, but he doesn’t look apologetic in the slightest. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“If I didn’t talk to Bobby or Jacq, what makes you think I’d talk to _you_?” The question comes out harsher than he means to, and he inwardly winces, but Greg doesn’t look phased in the slightest. Then again, maybe he’s starting to get immune to David’s insults. “And if by ‘it’ you mean my shift and the backlog and Travis’s general pathetic nature, I will keep repeating ‘it was a double-shift and I was tired’ until I’m blue in the face, if need be. Now, thank you for the food. Let me eat and sleep in peace.” 

Greg sighs. “You know, you could try _not_ insulting people. It’d be a change of pace.” 

“Oh, but how I live for monotony,” he deadpans, and sets the paper bag onto the coffee table. His head is aching, and he’s feeling vaguely nauseous, which will all go away after a nice long sleep. “Day in, day out, with my unfailing sarcasm. I don’t know what I’d do with myself if I tried being nice.” 

He earns rolled eyes at that, and then Greg flops onto the couch, apparently making himself at home. Large, earnest brown eyes peer up at David for a moment, and then Greg says quietly, with an undertone that David has never heard before but one that makes him feel suddenly a little off-kilter, “Nick said you seemed really…focused on the Henderson case.” 

“So?” That comes out more defensive than David plans, and damn, now Greg is definitely going to sit on the couch and pester him until he breaks. He shrugs and doesn’t meet Greg’s gaze. “Hate crimes get under my skin, that’s all.” 

“Hate crimes, or just those particular hate crimes?” Greg is speaking with the same soft undertone, and damn it, he shouldn’t be reminding him of Michael, because aside from the obvious opposite features -- Greg’s Norwegian whiteness would have contrasted sharply with Michael’s half African-American, half Hispanic blood -- their personalities weren’t alike at all. 

Greg is sure of himself and constantly praising his own genius, reckless almost to a fault, and undeniably brilliant (even if he couldn’t spell to save his life). Michael had been quietly self-derisive, hesitant when it came to most things (which is why David had ended up interviewing his potential boyfriends and threatening their lives -- in fact, asking David out had been the most daring venture of his life), and while he had been smart, he hadn’t done anything with his intelligence. Instead of getting a career in art, he’d just quietly collected his diploma and gotten a job as a bartender. No, they weren’t anything alike, aside from an infectious smile and eyes bright with life, not to mention the fact that they both somehow put up with David’s abrasive personality--

“Look, I know you’re a private person. I know that, I do, I just thought that--” 

“His name was Michael.” David hears himself say, and is as surprised as Greg (if the other man’s wide-eyed staring is any indication) that he’s speaking. But still, his tongue wags on, out of his control entirely, and his voice is low and weary. “Michael Thomas. We met in college. Roommates, junior year. Michael…he was an all-around good guy. I used to tease him, because he was the stereotype of an understanding bartender, always leaning across the counter, polishing a glass, and asking someone if they’d had a bad day. He never once cheated on his current boyfriend. I don’t think the idea of it ever occurred to him that it was a possibility, honestly.” He pauses, and feels the same sensation of despair wrap around his throat and begin tightening its grip. 

“We stayed roommates, after college. Got a small apartment in L.A., where I could work with the LAPD and he could easily find a job as a bartender. He bounced from bar to bar, because with his looks, he either attracted stalker-like customers or irritated his boss. He finally found a bar he liked though. It paid well, his boss was a woman so she would just joke about all hot men being gay or taken, and there were no stalker-like customers. Well, not yet anyway. Michael…Michael really enjoyed working there.” David made a noise in the back of his throat, but it came out so stifled he wasn’t sure if it was a laugh or a repressed sob. “He’d only been working there for a couple weeks when it happened. Some homophobic asshole, drunk off his ass, decided it would be funny to ‘scare some queers’. The bar Michael worked at wasn’t exclusively a gay bar, but it was a more open scene there, and so the guy went there to have his fun. Of course, drunks don’t have the best hand-eye coordination, and when he fired off a few rounds from his gun, he actually fired into the bar. Michael….” His voice is swallowed up by misery, but judging by the expression on Greg’s face, David’s said more than enough. 

The restless feeling is back with a vengeance, and he is suddenly pacing and not meeting Greg’s eyes. His movement is stilted though, because he finds himself shying away from the closet where the painting is, and the mantel where the photograph is, and the cabinet where the home videos were….

David’s mouth is dry as the Sahara, but he can feel the prickling sensation of tears and the nausea is back, ten times more forceful than before, and all he wants to do, really, is walk out of his house and down the driveway and just…walk until this restless feeling loosens his muscles and his emotions stop feeling so damn _turbulent_ and he can just forget--

A gentle hand lands on his shoulder, stilling his pacing, and he blinks at Greg.

Greg just looks at him for a moment, wearing a quiet, intense expression, and then squeezes his shoulder and says softly, “I’m sorry about Michael, David.” David has never heard him sound so sincere before. 

And the restless sensation is still writhing under his skin, even as he swallows and tries to force enough liquid into his mouth to speak. “So am I,” is what finally escapes his lips, hopelessly inadequate, because there are no words to express how David had shattered at the moment he’d been informed of Michael’s death, not a single word that could describe his attempt to pick up the shards of his life and his heart (he is certain he’s still missing a few pieces, but he refuses to go back to L.A. to search for them). 

Greg’s hand is still on his shoulder, and before David knows what he’s doing, he’s tugging the hand away and trapping it between his own, perhaps holding on a bit too tightly, but if he is, there is no flicker of pain on the other man’s face. “So am I,” he says again, grappling for better words even as he looks at Greg’s deep, understanding eyes and direct, earnest expression, and then his lips are pressing themselves against Greg’s and he is kissing him hungrily, desperately, like a drowning man struggles for oxygen when his head breaks the surface one last time or a starving man grasps for a scrap of bread that someone has finally dropped at his feet, and after a moment, Greg is kissing him back. 

When David finally breaks the kiss, he notices in a vague sort of way that Greg’s wrapped his arms around him, anaconda-tight, and that his eyes are bright with unshed tears. 

Greg starts to say something that could’ve been “I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_” or “I love you,” and David kisses him again, and tries to ignore the soft, poisonous voice in the back of his head that reminds him that he is simply back at the beginning, and soon there would be death and despair, just like before, and soon everything would fall apart again.   



End file.
